


In This Together

by jhoom



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, M/M, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Whump, Pre-Relationship, medieval era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolo have settled into a friendship of sorts, traveling and working together instead of trying to kill one another. So when Nicolo is captured, Yusuf feels honor bound to rescue him. Along the way, though, he begins to wonder if it's merely honor and friendship that drives him... or something more.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 17
Kudos: 272
Collections: The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020





	In This Together

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In This Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455441) by [Danger_Zone24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danger_Zone24/pseuds/Danger_Zone24). 



> I have not participated in a bang in FOREVER but I couldn't resist this one haha. Joe/Nicky just have it all... murder husbands who have lived through all my fav time periods to write?? You can't blame me for this one. 
> 
> Special thanks to my wonderful artist [Danger_Zone24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danger_Zone24/pseuds/Danger_Zone24) -please visit [their post](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455441) for the art!
> 
> If you'd like to yell about murder husbands with me, I'm on tumblr as [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) :)

The sun is too high overhead; it blinds Yusuf whenever he looks up to track a gull, and he hopes they finish their business soon so they can go back to the inn and he can take a nap. He does not mind the heat, not truly, but that does not mean he wants to stand out in the worst of it when he doesn’t have to. 

It’s hot for the season. The realization that Yusuf of all people knows enough about Italian weather and seasons to  _ know _ it’s unseasonably hot makes him laugh. Nicolo looks over his shoulder at him, frowning in question. Yusuf shakes his head; it’s not worth explaining. 

Nicolo’s eyes roam his face for a moment before shrugging and going back to his business of negotiating a better price for their evening meal. Always stingy but always too giving, he’s torn between his wallet and his desire to give the old woman minding the stall a good price. She’s suspicious of his tactics, Yusuf can tell, and it’s hard to hide a smile. 

Strange, the turn his life has taken. It’s been years now since they’d begrudgingly started traveling together. It had not been easy, putting aside their differences and agreeing that their mutual interests were better served together. There were many times he's wondered if it was worth it, trusting the crusader and forgiving him the hundred deaths he'd brought to Yusuf alone. 

Now he watches fondly as Nicolo begrudgingly shakes hands with the old woman to accept her offered price. Whatever animosity he'd once held for Nicolo, he can find no traces of it now. In its place is something warmer, the familiarity of old friends and the strength of brothers in arms. And perhaps something more, something he can't quite work out as he sifts blindly through nebulous feelings. 

_ Oh well _ , he thinks dismissively.  _ If it's important, I'll figure it out eventually. We have plenty of time, after all…  _

Nicolo walks back to Yusuf, interrupting his thoughts. "Fresh cheese and bread," he says happily, like there could be no greater bounty on earth.

Considering the rotten food they've had to make due with on the road, Yusuf supposes there's something to be said for a decent meal.

They walk together through the streets, breaking off pieces of bread and cheese as they go. They have never been here before, this little town, and Nicolo eagerly takes in the sights. He talks Yusuf's ear off in Italian so fast and happy, Yusuf can barely understand it. It's only many years of practice that allows him to keep up and occasionally add his own commentary about the quaint town.

There’s something about moments like these. The crook of Nicolo’s smile, the way his eyes shine… it makes Yusuf’s chest clench uncomfortably. He doesn’t understand it, perhaps because he does not wish to, but he enjoys the feeling nonetheless. 

They've reached the end of the market and mean to turn towards the harbor when it happens.

“Nicolo di Genoa,” comes a call from behind them.

Yusuf looks to Nicolo first and sees him stand there, frozen. It is not panic that he finds there. No, it is more like annoyed resignation. It is similar to the look he gives when Yusuf takes the last of the dates or when he awakens from a nightmare with a garbled scream. This is not how he wishes to see his day go, knows it will be unpleasant, but he has already accepted it. 

Nicolo turns to face the man who has challenged him, so Yusuf does as well. The man looks to be in his late fifties, with a graying beard and portly figure that hints at earlier fitness lost to age and luxury. He's brought an armed guard with him, hardly a good sign. Still, Nicolo seems unworried.

Yusuf is unsure whether to also be unworried… or to worry double on Nicolo's behalf.

“Tuccio,” Nicolo greets with a forced smile. “I see you are well.” 

The man spits. “No thanks to you,  _ sfigato _ .”

The word makes Yusuf cock his head to the side. He’s not familiar with it, though he knows an insult when he hears one. 

Yusuf’s gaze drifts between the two men before landing on Nicolo. He raises an eyebrow in question, and Nicolo huffs a sigh. 

“I freed the women and children held captive in his castello,” Nicolo explains with a shrug. “He was not happy to have lost so much potential ransom money.” 

While he might not show it, Yusuf can tell that Nicolo is pleased that he has done so. It must have been in the time they were not together, because he is sure he would have noticed Nicolo disappearing and coming back covered in sweat and blood, reeking of another escaped death or two.

No, more than that; if they were together, he is sure Nicolo would have asked him to join him. 

“Did you now?” Yusuf teases.

“Yes. He is also the great-great-great-grandson of my mother’s youngest sister. He’s a distant relative, so it was very embarrassing to me that he would do such things.” 

He cannot help it, Yusuf bursts out laughing. “You never told me you had family left.” 

Nicolo rolls his eyes and gestures to the man who clearly means to take his anger out on them both. “And can you blame me for it, with relatives such as these? My mother’s sister was such a sweet girl, she would be embarrassed, too.” 

Still laughing, Yusuf leans in and rests a hand on Nicolo’s shoulder so he can try and regain control. The strange joy of this moment, so close to death that he can practically taste it but buoyed by Nicolo’s blasé attitude on the whole thing, it's too much for him. 

“Is this why you didn’t kill him?” Yusuf asks as he begins to regain his composure. He notes that the soldiers have fully encircled them and all have their hands on their swords. 

“It’s a sin,” Nicolo says, vaguely awkward. “Cain and Abel…” 

Yusuf nods. They speak often of sin; ones they’ve committed, ones committed against them, and what God would think of two enemies such as them breaking bread regularly. 

And if their unnatural gifts qualify as sin. They talk most of all about that.

He squeezes Nicolo’s shoulder, surprised he hasn’t let go yet. “I can do it for you, if you like. He's not  _ my _ distant cousin.” 

“Enough of this,” Tuccio shouts. “If anyone is dying today, it is you and your friend.” 

“Friend is a rather strong word,” Yusuf calls back in his broken Italian. He’s better than he was when he’d first met Nicolo to be sure, but he is by no means fluent, especially not in this newer dialect. As the years pass, he sees Nicolo getting frustrated with the language around them, muttering under his breath that they speak a bastard tongue. 

The point remains, though, that Yusuf's Italian is better suited for bartering in the marketplace or teasing Nicolo on their travels; he’s ill prepared for scolding Nicolo’s distant cousin. 

“We are more like comrades in arms,” he finishes, and hopes at least some of his teasing is evident to Nicolo, at least, if not Tuccio.

“This isn’t your fight,” Nicolo mutters even as he moves to protect Yusuf’s unguarded left. “He might still let you go.” 

Yusuf hesitates. It is not fear of death that makes him unsure; he shed that fear long ago, and would embrace any end if it is his time. No, it is Nicolo’s offer and the strange pain it causes deep in his chest. How many times have they fought side by side, and suddenly Nicolo does not want him here? Perhaps Yusuf's jest is true and they aren’t friends at all. 

Maybe he  _ should _ leave. 

Tuccio makes the decision for him. He grabs a crossbow from one of the men standing near him and takes aim. “It’s too late for that! I won’t let any of that devil’s friends get away, no matter how much you beg!” 

“You know, I wish I had not left my sword at the inn,” Nicolo mumbles. “All I have is a knife. And I’d rather not be shot with a crossbow again.” 

“I tell you these things, and you never listen.” Yusuf’s hand goes to his own scimitar. He can't remember a time when he was without it. “Has it really been so long since I killed you, for you to be so foolish?” 

NIcolo shrugs sheepishly. “It’s been nearly twenty-two years.” 

“Really? So long? No wonder you’ve grown complacent.” He winks, and adds, “I’ll try not to embarrass you too much with how much better I am.” 

Despite the rather dire circumstances, Nicolo grins at him. He opens his mouth to speak, which is when the whirl of the crossbow firing fills the air. Yusuf barely has time to register the sound before the bolt hits Nicolo hard in the shoulder. He staggers back a few steps and falls to a knee. It is not a killing blow, but it no doubt hurts, and the sight stirs something in Yusuf’s belly. 

There’s no time to think on it. Out of pure instinct, he draws his blade and slices at the nearest soldier. Even as he falls into the rhythm of the fight, striking and blocking and dodging, he tries to keep an eye on Nicolo. 

He watches Nicolo break the crossbow bolt and pull it out of his shoulder. 

He watches Nicolo awkwardly fight with his knife while the wound heals. 

He watches Nicolo take another bolt to the thigh, hears him curse as he continues to fight while braced against a wall. 

Yusuf is so distracted by his efforts to keep track of Nicolo that he finds himself cornered by three large men. They curse at him in Italian, something like the dialect Nicolo uses but with the accent and tone completely different. It makes the individual words indecipherable to him, though enough of the anger is clear that he doesn’t need the specific meaning. 

Insults to him, his family, his people, his religion, his everything, to be sure. Threats of violence and degrading words that might have goaded him on years ago when he was young and on his first life but that now mean less than nothing to him. He was old already when these men were babes in their mothers' arms, old when their  _ mothers _ were babes. They are such children, and Yusuf is just old and surly enough to not care about the pitiful insults of children.

Still, children or not, they are strong and outnumber him. His teeth rattle as he blocks another blow, kicks the legs out from one of his attackers, ignores the pain from the gash on his arm that's healing slower than he'd like. As skilled as he is, Yusuf is bound by his own strength, his speed, his stamina. 

It takes precious minutes to kill off his attackers, then the two wounded men who jump out of a dark alley to try and subdue him. It's only in the aftermath, the eerie quiet after the brawl, that he notices what's wrong.

Nicolo is nowhere to be found. Worse, there are far too few bodies left bleeding in the dust. This is only a fraction of the men that surrounded them… 

Which means they've taken him. They've taken Nicolo.

Yusuf bites back a curse and clenches his fists to keep from trembling. This is bad, very bad. He does not fear for Nicolo's life, but this man, this Tuccio, knows Nicolo. How long ago did Nicolo anger him? How many decades has he been tracking him down for revenge? Long enough, surely, that he knows something of what Nicolo is.

So no, Yusuf does not have death on his mind; he worries how Tuccio will make use of Nicolo's unending lives to torture him. 

He only allows himself a single minute to brood. He's frustrated and angry and disappointed, and above all he's concerned for his friend, but these are not emotions he has the time to dwell on right now. Instead he must use them to his advantage and  _ find _ Nicolo. The fact that he plans to rescue him goes without saying.

"Fuck," he hisses under his breath, cleaning off his blade on a dead man's cloak before he's off.

There's not much of a trail to follow. No bloody path, no line of broken doors and market stands pointing in the right direction. Just a few startled townsfolk who eye Yusuf suspiciously and refuse to do more than wave him towards the path that leads out of town.

He only stops at the inn long enough to collect Nicolo's sword, and then he's running out the town gates. 

The travelers on the road are more loose tongued. They see a man with two swords, his clothes still damp with blood, and the wild look in his eyes, and they talk. They tell him about the group of armed men, more than a dozen, heading east on horseback. Worse, they speak of a man, bound and gagged, that they dragged behind them. 

"Where are they going?" he demands, gritting his teeth and aching to cut off Tuccio's head. 

The travelers shrug. There's only one among them, a haggard merchant, who offers him more.

"There's an abandoned monastery some twenty miles that way. Used to be the monks offered quarters to travelers, now it's nothing but ruffians using it for all manner of ill deeds. We all avoid the place now, since it's as good as begging to be robbed or have your throat slit."

Yusuf sighs. "Yes, that sounds like just the place they would go,  _ grazie _ ." An idea occurs to him. "Did you stay there, when it was still a monastery? Do you know the place?"

The man gives him a look that's one part wary and two parts pity. 

"Your friend is as good as dead," he says gently. "I've seen enough men like that to know they don't have ransom on their mind. If he even survives the journey, he'll wish he hadn't."

It's nothing Yusuf didn't already know, but he grimaces anyway. It's one thing to have his own suspicions, another to have them confirmed. 

"Still," Yusuf urges, "have you been there?"

"Revenge will do nothing but get you killed."

Under different circumstances, he might have laughed. He fully expects to die several times, and he will gladly do so to save Nicolo. He'll even risk capture and the exposure of his own secret to do it. He wants to say it's because he owes Nicolo, or because Nicolo would do the same for him. Perhaps those reasons are also true, but at the heart of it, Yusuf finds he simply cannot stand the idea of someone hurting Nicolo.

Especially not when he can do something about it.

"I have gold," he offers instead. 

Yusuf sees the hesitation start to melt away. 

"How much?" the man asks, as if his conscience won't allow him to send Yusuf to a certain death unless it's for the right price.

He blindly reaches into his purse and pulls out a handful. It's more than generous, though he sees the old man looking at the bag, weighing it with a look. Yusuf not so subtly puts it away and forces the man to meet his eyes.

"The monastery," he prompts and pushes the coins into the man's chest. They clang together enough that the man seems to forget the purse. "Tell me about it."

He scrambles to catch the coins before they hit the dirt. "What do you want to know?" he asks.

With a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, Yusuf leans in and says, "Everything."

~ ~ ~

Twenty minutes is closer to thirty, Yusuf's feet blistering faster than they can heal. He travels until he's so blind in the darkness he can’t move without tripping over things or stubbing his toes. Though he hates the delay, he begrudgingly bundles himself in his cloak at the root of a tree. He doesn’t sleep—at best his mind wanders—but sits there charting the stars and tracing the lines along the hilt of Nicolo’s sword. 

The sun hasn’t quite come up when Yusuf gets up and keeps going. The morning dew makes the path muddy, and the birds’ tweeting happily in the trees make a mockery of his growing dread. He knows just how much he and Nicolo can endure, in no small part because of how much they’ve inflicted upon each other, but he does not want to think of how men crueler than them might push those limits further. 

_ I’m coming, Nicolo _ , he repeats over and over. The pledge might not make it to Nicolo, but hopefully it will calm his own racing heart.

The monastery is on a hill overlooking the path. It’s difficult to approach without being seen. Yusuf debates whether or not he cares, almost craves that these men know that someone is coming for them, but in the end decides to be cautious and stick to the treeline and the more difficult, rocky path leading up. It wouldn’t do for them to bar the doors and make it that much harder for him to get inside, so he’ll need the element of surprise working in his favor for as long as possible. He only hopes the men assumed Yusuf died in the town or is unable (or unwilling) to track them down on Nicolo’s behalf; he almost regrets killing all his attackers, when he could have instead let one run him through and return with news of a false victory. 

He lurks in the bushes at the edge of the small rise that leads to the monastery’s doors. There are no gates, as the traveler promised, but the doors are thick wood; he’d need an axe to break through if they barricaded it. There are some guards walking around the overgrown gardens, though mostly they linger by the door. A few are rolling dice by a campfire, long neglected since the sun’s risen, while others smoke and do their best to look menacing. 

Seven men. Yusuf estimates he could kill two, perhaps three before they even draw their weapons. The others will hopefully stay to fight, though it’s likely they will sound the alarm. As long as he can put himself between them and the door, he will be able to finish them off and make it inside. 

In his mind’s eye, he retraces the map the traveler had drawn in the sand for him, the crude and sometimes ill-remembered blueprint of the monastery. It isn’t much to go on, but Yusuf is thankful to have any idea what’s waiting for him inside those walls. Anything to get to Nicolo sooner. 

He bides his time until he thinks they are at their worst, their most distracted. He walks towards them, posture relaxed and hailing them with a friendly wave and broken Italian. 

“Where is the nearest village?” he calls to them, making the words sound more stilted than usual. If he seems lost, all the better. 

“Stay back,” a man calls. His hand goes for his sword; others reach for theirs but don’t seem particularly concerned. He’s still too far away for them to see the blood on his clothes. 

Yusuf continues, unconcerned. “My horse hurt his leg down the hill. I am worrying I will have to kill him, unless of course you could help—” 

The talking gets him close enough to draw his scimitar and swing it at the overly cautious man. His eyes go wide and he struggles for his own blade far too late to do anything; Yusuf kills him easily, and makes quick work of the other men. In their shock, they are only able to fight. There is no strategy, no working together, no rushing to alert those hiding inside. There is their fear and Yusuf’s fury, nothing else. 

When he steps into the monastery, the old door creaking on its hinges, he wonders what kind of apparition he must appear to be. However he looked when he left the village is nothing to how he is now, blood spattered across his face, bits of hacked off flesh tangled in his hair, his sword drenched in blood everywhere but where he held it firm. 

There are not many men. Yusuf is pleased at the lack of defenses, remembers full well the disinterested guards who let him get so close, and knows Nicolo’s return to him is only a matter of time. He is also annoyed, because it’s much harder to find someone to interrogate when he’s ambushed by two men at a time and has killed them both in self defense before he can stop himself. 

It takes a good twenty minutes to find one alive, though living is perhaps a generous term for the man bleeding out before him on the ground. 

“Where’s Nicolo?” he demands. The terrified soldier stares up at him with wide, unseeing eyes. 

Yusuf pushes his foot more firmly onto his chest, feeling the bend of his ribs. 

“The man you took from the town,” he repeats calmly, each word enunciated by the slightest bit more pressure, “where is he?” 

Just as the first rib starts to give, the man cries out. “In the bell tower!” he yells. “Please! I didn’t touch him, let me go!” 

Yusuf obliges, at least as far as pulling his foot away. There have been times when these words would be enough to stay his hand, to pull at his heart strings and make him find mercy. He finds that it does nothing this time. 

Not today. 

Not when it’s Nicolo.

“Unfortunately,” he says as he raises Nicolo’s blade, “you work for the men who  _ have _ touched him. And while you might not have hurt Nicolo, I’m sure there are many others you have hurt in the past, and more still you will if I let you go.” 

Despite his anger, he makes the man’s death quick. He’s not cruel, even in his anger. He too was a soldier, many times over, and some causes were more just than others. 

He’s also experienced more than his fair share of death; he knows agony like few others, and there are few he would impose that on. 

The bell tower is where the old man promised, his vague rememberings more true than not. If he ever sees the man again, Yusuf will give him the rest of the gold after all. 

The guards here are better trained. Yusuf actually dies on the steps, breathing out a rattly last breath before minutes later he’s drawing in another as he gets to his feet. The men grow pale when they see it, but do not seem surprised. They’ve killed Nicolo, then. Once if not more. 

Knowing this helps Yusuf find the strength to beat them down. 

The small platform at the top of the tower no longer has a bell. It offers only a mediocre view of the surrounding landscape, since trees cover the entire southern side of the hill. Yusuf barely notes this before he’s on his knees besides Nicolo. 

He’s unconscious, covered in dried blood that is surely his own, and tied to the sturdiest remaining post. Even in his sleep, he frowns as if in pain. 

“Nicolo,” he says. As gently as he can, he nudges the other man. Puts a hand on his cheek, brushes a stray lock of hair from his forehead, eases him until he’s sitting. 

Nicolo groans but doesn’t answer; he doesn’t protest Yusuf’s ministrations, either, and even seems to lean into the touch. It’s only when Nicolo opens his eyes that he seems to register where he is and who’s with him. 

“You came for me,” Nicolo says with such surprise it makes Yusuf’s chest ache. 

“Of course I did, why would you doubt such a thing?” he scolds. He busies himself with the task of cutting the ropes binding him, because that way he does not have to see the relief and awe on Nicolo’s face, like this is some great deed of heroism and not the obvious extension of the friendship they’ve worked on over the years. 

More importantly, Nicolo cannot see the hurt he feels that he ever doubted him.

“I suppose,” Nicolo says slowly, giving the question real consideration. “I suppose… that I thought you would see this as an opportunity. I know we said our interests are better served together, but I have worried over the years that you did not much like traveling with me.” He offers a sheepish smile; it brings out the rings under his eyes and only troubles Yusuf more. “We are very different men, despite the obvious commonality.” 

It takes a great deal of self-control to keep from shouting at Nicolo right then. To tell him he’s a fool for ever questioning that Yusuf would come for him, that he viewed Yusuf as disinterested, merely tolerating him— 

He doesn’t know where the impulse comes from, but he grabs Nicolo’s face and brings their foreheads together. So close, he can see every shade of blue in his eyes. 

“I am sorry you felt you were alone in this,” Yusuf whispers. “I’m sorry I did not do a better job of being your friend before this. You are perhaps the best of friends I have ever had.”  _ He is more! _ part of him screams. Yusuf is not quite ready to listen to that voice, though, so he ignores it. “I will always come for you. Never doubt that. For better or worse, we are in this life together.” 

“This life,” Nicolo repeats with a wry smile. “Which one is that, exactly? I’ve had so many, it’s good to be sure.” 

“All of them,” Yusuf promises. 

They stay there like that, foreheads pressed together and breathing in each other’s exhale. Yusuf looks into Nicolo’s eyes until it becomes too much, and he closes his eyes to keep from drowning in Nicolo’s. There is an intimacy growing between them in this drawn out moment, one that scares him a little. Nicolo is right, they have  _ so many lives _ … something that would connect them, truly join them together, likely just as unbreakable as they are. 

It’s Nicolo who pulls away first, and Yusuf finds himself already mourning the loss of his touch. 

“I have to find Tuccio,” Nicolo says mournfully by way of apology. “He’s not a good man. He’ll come after me again, and if he can’t find me, he’ll take it out on the innocents who get in his way.” 

Yusuf sighs through his nose. Right. They’re not done here. 

“The abbot’s quarters are in the back, built into the rocks,” he says as he gets to his feet and helps Nicolo to his. “He’ll probably be there, if he hasn’t already fled.” 

Nicolo nods thoughtfully. “You were quiet, I think. I did not hear you make your way up here. I am thinking perhaps he doesn’t know to flee, or he’s seen the mess you’ve made and is terrified a whole army of men have come for him.”

“What makes you think I’ve made a mess?” 

Nicolo narrows his eyes at him as he gives Yusuf an obvious once over, taking in the deep crimson covering him from head to toe. “You are joking, right? You do not think you’ve been subtle, do you?”

Yusuf can’t help the small smile that spreads across his lips. He hands Nicolo his bloodied longsword by way of answer, and then because he’s feeling strangely brave and affectionate, he cups Nicolo’s cheek in his hand. 

“No, I don’t suppose I have. Come, let’s go kill your great-great-great nephew or whoever he is.”

“Cousin,” Nicolo says, though he seems momentarily dazed by Yusuf’s proximity; he blushes a little before he takes his sword and scowls at it. “You keep your own sword clean for over a hundred years, no problems. You have mine for a day and you ruin it.”

“It’s not ruined! Blood cleans off! You want me to clean it for you?”

“Yes. It’s the least you can do.” 

“I just rescued you—!” He cuts himself off when he sees Nicolo’s eyes shining in amusement. “You are teasing me.” 

“I am teasing you,” Nicolo confirms. “Lead me to the abbot’s quarters.” 

They encounter no one on the way, hear nothing, gain no clues as to who may or may not be left within the monastery’s walls. When they round a corner, though, they bump into a man standing guard outside the abbot’s quarters. He  _ oofs _ in surprise, and in the second it takes for him to get his bearings, the man is dead on Nicolo’s sword. 

“You know,” Yusuf says as he searches the man for keys. He finds them on his belt. “I could have used your help getting here.” 

“Wouldn't want to make things too easy for you,” Nicolo says. “You need your exercise, after all.” He pulls his sword free and squares his feet. “Open the door for me.” 

Yusuf does just that. As quietly as he can manage, he unlocks the door. He shares a look with Nicolo and only after the other man’s nod does Yusuf push it open for him. 

“You—!” Tuccio reaches for his crossbow; Nicolo crosses the room in three strides and slices his arm off just below the elbow. 

He cries out in anguished surprise before he drops to his knees, clutching at the ruined limb and glaring murder at Nicolo. 

“Li mortacci tua!” he shouts, red-faced and spitting. 

Nicolo looks momentarily taken aback before he too is shouting. “I  _ am _ your ancestor, you ungrateful— Do you have any idea— Your poor mother and her mother’s mother and— ” He stands there, sputtering as he chokes on his rage. 

It does not matter; Tuccio seems to hear none of it. As more and more blood drains out of him, he collapses to the ground and writhes in quiet agony.

Knowing all too well the qualms Nicolo has about what must happen next, Yusuf calms him with a hand to his shoulder. 

“Let me?” he offers again. 

Nicolo begrudgingly shakes his head. 

“I should have done this the last time,” he mutters more to himself than Yusuf. “I let him go before, hoping to save myself from the stain of his blood and hoping just as much that whatever blood we do share would make him into a better man. I know better now. I’m too old to be making the same foolish mistake again, and I would not ask someone else to take on this burden. Not even you.” 

“I am no  _ mistake, _ ” Tuccio hisses. He’s dying right here before them, and would surely not live long on his own; there are few healers who could save him now, with so much of his blood draining out of him every moment, and none of them are here. 

And still, halfway in the grave, the man feels the need to make his voice heard. 

In all honesty, that fire reminds him quite a bit of Nicolo. The same intensity, though at least Nicolo’s had been fueled by misguided thoughts of his own righteousness and his duty to his faith. This man has very different motivations for the ill deeds he does, and it’s evident in his lack of remorse. 

But still, there’s something of a family resemblance. Some little trace of the people Nicolo grew up with, who raised him, who lived knowing him and then died when it was their time. 

Yusuf wonders if Nicolo sees it too, sees that invisible thread connecting him and Tuccio. If he does… well, Yusuf understands his hesitation now. Yusuf left so few family behind him when he went to Jerusaleum, and there were fewer still when he left, some hundred deaths later. It’s been so long since he’s had any concept of family… but he thinks he would not want to rid himself of any distant relations, no matter how distasteful they might be. 

But he also knows this is not the thing to say to Nicolo. Nicolo wavers between two opposing duties. He has his duty to his family, as the silent, ghost of a patriarch who has kept at least a distant watch through the years… and he has a duty to himself and his moral compass. He knows Tuccio is a bad man who has done bad things and will continue to do them if given half a chance. He has taken on that responsibility, and he no doubt feels every life Tuccio’s ruined as being his fault. 

In this moment, Yusuf too feels duty call him. And it is a very simple one, indeed: it is his duty to make this easy for Nicolo. 

“He will die either way now,” Yusuf whispers. “Do not think of what comes next as a sin. What you do now is a mercy, more kindness than a man such as him is perhaps worth. You tried to do right by him before, and that is what will be remembered. You gave him a second chance; it was he who squandered it.” 

“He gave me  _ nothing _ ,” Tuccio interrupts. “He’s cost me so much…” His eyes were a grey mirror of Nicolo’s as he stared up at him and spit weakly in his direction. “You deserve none of the gifts you have. If I had what you have…”

Nicolo went stiff beside Yusuf. Something about the words must have hardened his resolve, because Yusuf saw his hand tighten on the hilt of his sword once more. 

“Praise be to God that he gave them to me instead, then,” Nicolo says before he swings. 

It’s a swift death, in the end. For whatever that’s worth. 

“Come.” Yusuf won’t let Nicolo linger here. His mood will sour if he stays too long. Now that it’s over, his anger will pass and Yusuf cannot let him start to wonder if this was the right path. So he pulls at Nicolo’s sleeve and when Nicolo resists, he only pulls harder. “You look awful, let’s get you cleaned up.” 

That does the trick. Nicolo blinks and stares at Yusuf incredulously. 

“ _ I _ look awful?”

Yusuf offers a lopsided grin. “Perhaps I do as well. Come clean me up, then.” 

There’s a spark in Nicolo’s eyes when he says it, and Yusuf’s heart skips a beat. “Perhaps I will.” 

While it’s done the trick of distracting Nicolo, Yusuf’s not quite sure what he’s gotten himself into. 

“Well,” he says awkwardly, “there was a stream I passed on my way here…” 

“Then lead the way.” 

They burn the monastery before they go. The flames are hot behind them when they finally leave. And though they leave the past in ruins behind them, Yusuf feels that their future together has just gotten a little brighter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Italian Notes ([from babbel.com](https://www.babbel.com/en/magazine/italian-insults)): 
> 
> sfigato : In the most basic sense, this means “loser,” but if you recall our earlier language lesson on the word “figa,” there’s a reference to female genitalia woven in here too.
> 
> Li mortacci tua : “Your dishonored dead ancestors!”


End file.
